


Boston

by My_Immoral



Series: The Book Tour [1]
Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Ballet, Casual Sex, F/F, Friends With Benefits, Oral Sex, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Rough Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-15
Updated: 2018-06-15
Packaged: 2019-05-23 13:41:49
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,337
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14935349
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/My_Immoral/pseuds/My_Immoral
Summary: Bestselling author Amelie Lacroix accepts an invitation from her old friend Moira to a night at the Boston ballet. And sex. For old time's sake.





	Boston

Imitation is the highest form of flattery, Amelie muses as she sits inside the lavish auditorium of the Boston Opera House. The red-paneled walls and painted, vaulted ceiling echo its Parisian forebear, but she admires the tasteful use of marble and gilding, even if the carpet under her heels is tacky. She decides that her pearls and a modest Dior gown were the correct choice for the evening.

“Is everything acceptable, Lacroix?” Moira asks, careful with her vowels. She lounges in the seat beside Amelie in a tailored silk suit and Oxfords. The pop of her amethyst tie is a little garish, but her cool gaze discourages comment.

Amelie raises an arched eyebrow. “It’s adequate.”

Moira smirks and turns her attention to the stage.

There is no reason for Amelie to be here. Her first stop on her long and expensive American book tour is not until tomorrow night — in New York, hours away — and by rights she should still be relaxing at the château or doing that interview with The Guardian that her agent wanted her to accept. But when Moira calls, Amelie comes; it has been this way for a decade, before Gerard, before the accident.

Amelie watches her now and pretends not to. They have spent little time together since Amelie’s divorce and her book deal last year. Moira is still as lean and focused as a greyhound after a rabbit, but with better funding these days. How the times have changed them both. Amelie thinks of the night they met at one of her first performances in Prague. Moira was fifteen years older and already standing in the ruins of her career; Amelie was a rising star who did not know how soon she was going to fall. She stares at the heavy stage curtains and thinks of their nights drinking in Moira’s seedy apartment before she had any taste in liquor or love.

Sitting here, needled by memories and the unwelcome urges that come with them, Amelie is not certain her taste ever improved.

“It’s starting,” Moira says, leaning forward just a little. 

The lights lower. In the pit, the maestro taps her music stand and the orchestra plays a stanza of Tchaikovsky. The curtains part and a ballerina in snow white tulle floats across the stage. As her delicate dance begins, Moira’s hand alights almost unconsciously on her companion’s arm.

Amelie cannot keep her attention on the ballet after that. Moira smells like chemicals and whiskey under her cologne. Her long, bony hand remains on Amelie’s wrist. Her fingers tighten slightly as the music crescendos.

The swan and her prince dance and part and dance again. A curse keeps them apart. Moira absently strokes the little bones in Amelie’s wrist with her thumb, unaware of the spark. Amelie crosses and uncrosses her ankles under her skirt. She thinks of another night, another Tchaikovsky suite on an old record player — her gauzy blue costume half on the floor — snow falling outside the steam-fogged windows — nails digging into her thighs until she gasps. When the lights come up at intermission, she is flushed.

“Moira…” she begins.

The older woman looks at her frankly. One eye is blue, the other golden-brown. Amelie thinks absurdly of the sapphire and topaz necklace in her safe at home and wishes she had worn it. Her mouth is dry. To anyone else, she would say, Come with me to my hotel room — not ask, but command — and it would be so. But she cannot command Moira. She can only be commanded.

Moira sees all of this in her expression and smirks again.

“Hush now,” she says, touching Amelie’s cheek with a finger. “Later.”

* * *

So Amelie waits.

She waits through the rest of Swan Lake. She waits as they applaud and the ballerinas return to bow. She waits as Moira’s elegant hands help her into her coat and as she remarks that Amelie is trembling. 

The rain has turned the brick roads in the Theatre District, absent of cars, into a psychedelic bridge three hundred years long when they finally spill out from the ballet. Neon lights reflect in modern glass walls and illuminate rows of 19th-century facades. Beneath her feet, the subway rumbles. Amelie spent too many years pirouetting on a stage to turn her high heels on the uneven cobbles, but distracted as she is, it is a near thing. Moira glides along with the same poise, her arm looped through Amelie’s like they really have stepped into another time.

“Come along,” she says, and they go.

They descend into the subway. It smells of sweat and cigarettes and piss. At the back of her mind, Amelie laments that she will need to burn this dress. Moira doesn’t seem to notice, and Amelie wonders what she spends on dry cleaning. Then she stops wondering about anything except how long they will be trapped in this metal car together without being able to touch. They cross the Charles River, glittering on both banks, and exit at the MIT stop.

“I keep an apartment up the way,” Moira explains as she guides Amelie with a hand on the small of her back. “Oasis sends me to so many conferences here.”

Honestly, Amelie barely notices the apartment. It is sleek and modern and badly lit, just like the work Moira does, and she is too wound up with need to question it. Moira removes their coats again and vanish them into a closet. There is the gleam of city lights through a window, the shapes of furniture in the dark. Amelie takes in a glance and no more, because she is already sure she knows where the bedroom is.

“Would you like an espresso?” Moira asks mildly, moving toward a space that must be the kitchen.

“No.”

“I do. Wait here.”

Amelie feels faint. The word “please” does not exist in her vocabulary except in the most fixed of phrases, but she is considering it. She leans toward the space where Moira disappeared and can just faintly make out her silhouette in the shadows. Moira leans forward, too, and the harsh lines of her face are cast in silver by the weak light.

“What is it, dear heart?” she asks. Her voice is low and rugged. Teasing. Amelie bites her tongue and does not say any of the things she is thinking, such as how Moira reminds her of a time when she was not broken, or that it has been six months since she has been kissed.

It takes an agonizing amount of time to make an espresso. Amelie does not fidget, but she sits on the arm of a chair and grips the upholstery as tightly as she can while she waits. Moira hums a strange mix of mournful Irish ballads and David Bowie hits while she coaxes the coffee through the delicate processes that will make it palatable. One light is now on in the kitchen. It sculpts her face in shadow and makes her mismatched eyes gleam whenever she glances up.

Finally, Moira comes into the living room — at least, with the rest of the lights still off, Amelie assumes it is such — and settles herself in the chair Amelie has perched on. She sips her espresso unhurriedly, watching her guest sideways over the rim of her porcelain cup.

There are a few reasons Amelie will need to burn this dress now, she thinks as she realizes how wet she has gotten just sitting here.

“You look uncomfortable,” Moira drawls. “Undress for me?”

It is just enough of a question that Amelie has room to refuse. Part of her wants to. This is undignified, flying halfway around the world just because this woman called, pining after her like a teenager, and now stripping for her like she’s been paid. Amelie remembers briefly that she is usually the aloof one, cool and calm and giving orders in intimate settings, but she forgets all of that when Moira raises an expectant eyebrow. She stands and fumbles with her zipper. The Dior dress slithers to the floor and she is left in her slip, tights, and pearls.

“So many layers,” Moira says, amused. She runs one nail down Amelie’s narrow hip, tugging up the hem of her slip, gliding over the expensive silk tights, tracing the shape of a lace flower on the panties underneath. “Take these off, too.”

Amelie obliges. The slip pools on top of her dress and she peels off her tights like a second skin. 

“Turn?”

She spins, not as gracefully as she could have once, but with a dancer’s assurance. When she has made a full turn, Moira’s gaze pins her there like a butterfly behind glass.

“Come here. On my lap.”

Obediently, Amelie approaches and climbs onto the older woman’s lap. Moira leans back and runs her chilly hands up and down Amelie’s naked sides, along her muscular legs, and briefly between them. Amelie moans a little and wishes she hadn’t when she sees how Moira grins.

“Loosen my tie for me, dear heart,” Moira says. The knot comes free easily in Amelie’s hands. Tentatively, she unbuttons the top button of Moira’s blouse, and when she is not ordered to stop, she undoes another and another. Under her shirt, Moira is still painfully thin, with a plain black bra over her small breasts. Her skin is freckled, smooth, and cool to the touch.

“Kiss me.”

Here, Amelie’s breath hitches. A kiss is personal in a way that stripping is not, somehow, and it has been so long. A strand of her hair slips free from its tight, formal up-do as she leans down and presses her lips to Moira’s. Immediately, she is back in Prague ten years ago, kissing Moira with a hunger she hadn’t known was devouring her. Those long fingers wrap around the back of her neck and hold her close.

They do not say another word to one another. Amelie remembers with poignant clarity where and how to touch her lover, when to move, when to stop without being asked. She unbuttons Moira’s trousers and moves to the floor. The wood will bruise her knees, but she doesn’t care. She puts a hand on each of Moira’s thighs and kisses the soft cotton between her legs. With one finger, she tugs the underwear to one side so she can slide her tongue along what’s underneath.

Amelie doesn’t look at Moira, but she hears the older woman sigh and tip her head back against the headrest. Her nails press lightly into Amelie’s scalp. Her underwear is damp from much more than Amelie’s tongue.

Gently, Amelie slides one finger inside her, mindful of her own nails, which are shorter than usual but not as short as they ought to be for this. Moira gasps. So she is capable of surprise, Amelie thinks with a smirk of her own. She slides her tongue more roughly over the other woman’s clit and almost shivers with pleasure when Moira contracts around her finger. She slips another one in and all but preens at the breathless, helpless noise Moira makes.

“Do you want me to stop —?”

“Don’t you dare,” Moira snaps. Suddenly, her nails are less gentle in Amelie’s hair, gripping it tightly and keeping her in place. Amelie would laugh to herself if her lips weren’t pressed firmly against the other woman. For all her swagger, Moira would be totally undone if she just…

“Lacroix —” Moira starts warningly, but Amelie is already free of her hold, tucking a loose hair behind her ear and standing with a fluid motion. Moira makes an undignified grab for her hand and misses. With a breathy laugh, Amelie dances out of the way. Her smile is poisonous.

“Look at you,” she sighs. “All these years, I’ve been like a dog on your leash, when this is all it takes to make you rabid.”

Moira stares for a moment, more disbelieving than annoyed, before she launches herself from the chair. Amelie lets herself be pinned to the nearest wall. Both of their faces are flushed, eyes bright, no more pretense between them. 

“Fuck me?” It’s not quite a question.

“Ask me nicely,” Moira whispers roughly in her ear, all teasing and yet deadly serious.

Does she want it this much? Amelie licks her lips, notes the rare current running under her skin and the hot, sticky need building between her legs, and decides that she does. Looking up through her long lashes, she says, “Would you PLEASE fuck me?”

There’s a pleasantly weighty thump as Moira drops to one knee, grinning like a mad fool. Her tongue is immediately and urgently on Amelie’s clit. No matter how many times they’ve done this, they never slow this furious pace. Heat unfolds like a rare rose in Amelie’s stomach. Her lungs are too small and tight beneath her heaving breasts. All thoughts of dignity, decorum, even romance evaporate like the fog on the river outside the window.

“I need — don’t stop — please — please, Moira!” she finds herself gasping as she teeters. How many times can she say that damned word? One more rough, hot lick, a squeeze of those nails on her ample ass —

It strikes her like lightning over the sea. The universe uncoils inside her, immense, and yet she is the only person in existence. Each of her muscles seem to spasm individually with a tension so acutely pleasurable that she cannot remember what it feels like to hurt. Her lungs freeze and then depress in a long, choked sigh. Only then does she begin to remember the hard wall at her back, the woman on her knees at her feet.

“Moira…I…That was…”

For a moment, they just smile, coy and abashed all at once. Then Moira lets out a derisive huff and throws herself back onto her armchair like she had never moved from it.

“Now, dear heart,” she says coolly, though she has barely stopped panting, “get over here and do the same thing to me.”


End file.
